


Avengers Self-Care

by psychoroach



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Cat Cafés, Gen, Nipple Piercings, Tattoos, self-care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 05:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14635245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychoroach/pseuds/psychoroach
Summary: The Avengers learn self-care.





	Avengers Self-Care

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry Natasha and Bruce's sections are a little short. I don't know enough about scrapbooking or cat cafe's. Plus I didn't want it to get long and boring.

Thor walked into his quarters in the Avengers compound with a weary slump to his shoulders, his axe, Stormbreaker, at his side. The cape to his 'battle wear' billowed behind him as he shut the door behind him and quietly asked FRIDAY to lock it and enact his privacy protocols. The front of his armor showed the wear and tear of the battle he'd just come from, covered in knicks, dents, and various slime and grunge from being thrown around by the large slug-like creatures that had been set upon New York. He twisted the battle axe around and hung it up by the door on the hook that was meant for coats and jackets, bending to take off his boots and leave them in the closet there as well. He unhooked his cape and brought it around in a practiced move, looking it over and wincing at how grimy and dirty it was, a few tears in the fabric that told of how intense things had gotten. 

Determined to deal with all of that later, Thor put the cape down on his coffee table and slid out of the upper part of his armor, leaving him bare from the waist up. He put it down on the coffee table as well and went to the bathroom, asking FRIDAY to start the shower to his preferred settings. While the water heated up (it actually only took seconds, but Thor knew the AI could maintain the temperature for far longer than he'd ever want to stand under the water), he stripped off the rest of his clothing and looked at himself in the mirror. He had bruises, scrapes and dried blood all over his body, but he knew it wouldn't be too long before his body healed itself so he paid it no mind. He ran his fingers through his hair, which had almost regrown to its previous length after being forcibly cut off in Sakaar and he winced when he felt all the grime, sludge and other things he probably didn't want to think about. He turned from the mirror above his sink and got in the shower, sighing heavily as the water beat down on his battered body, giving him both comfort as his muscles started relaxing, and a bit of pain, his slight open wounds protesting the invasion as the water worked out anything that may have worked its way inside his cuts and lodged in there. 

Grabbing his body wash, Thor poured a healthy amount in his palm, comforted by the scent wafting around. It was a heady scent, that reminded him of wood and other 'manly' things. He washed his body almost absently, wanting to just get clean and make sure all the sweat and dirt was washed away so he could finally wind down and relax for the rest of the day and night. It wasn't a quick endeavor, by any means, but Thor knew it was worth it, as feeling clean after such a battle, and being completely filthy for what felt like a very long time, did wonders for making him feel better. 

He put the body wash back down after he felt he was clean enough and picked up his favorite two-in-one shampoo and conditioner and lathered it through his hair, the eucalyptus smell wafting around and making Thor inhale heavily, calmed even further because of the soothing scent. He didn't spend too much time washing his hair, just long enough to make sure it was clean and had nothing left in it. He wanted to indulge in other things so he washed the shampoo out and asked FRIDAY to turn the water off. He got out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, grabbing his toothbrush and brushing his teeth, since they had what he had learned was a 'cottony' feel to them that was highly unpleasant. Once that was done, he grinned to himself as he opened a drawer under his sink and rooted around until he found the stash of hair masks Natasha had given him with the instructions of 'treating yourself a couple of times a week'. He took one of the caps out and the bottle that came along with it and read it over even though he knew the instructions by heart at that point.

He opened the bottle and poured a generous amount into his palm, working it into his hair, watching himself in the mirror as he saw the lather begin and he felt the mint take effect, leaving his scalp with a very pleasant tingling feeling that he coveted when he let himself indulge in this process. He washed his hands off once he had a good lather going on and picked up the cap, gently scooping his hair up in it and covering his head. He looked rather silly, he knew, but the outcome was worth it. Plus he was alone in his private quarters, that meant he could be as silly as he wanted. 

He wiped off a bit of the product from his forehead and walked back out to his bedroom. He debated on dressing before he just threw on a pair of his briefs, tugging them into place. He liked the feel of being naked, not needing the heaviness of clothing all of the time, but he knew that sometimes the others let themselves in without fanfare so he did at least want to cover up his 'naughty bits' as Tony liked to call them. The turn of phrase amused Thor, as he had never heard of the term before, and he didn't quite understand it, but he didn't think much about it. 

Thor went out to the living room and sat down on the floor by the coffee table, looking at his armor briefly before he got back up and went back to the bathroom. He grabbed a plastic basin and filled it with water and a cleanser he was assured was 'for metal' along with a large wash cloth and returned to his previous spot. He dunked the cloth into the foamed water and began cleaning his armor, working out the grime and a few of the slight scratches that were more from dirt than actual wear on the metal. The repetition of it soothed him even more and he felt his adrenaline calming down from where it had spiked to its normal high levels during the battle. His armor had seen a lot of battles over the years and the dents and scrapes would never come out of it fully, that is unless he purposely had it fixed, but he didn't trust anyone to do that, so he just did the best he could himself and allowed that the rest of it just showed how great of a warrior he was and how much he'd been through. 

Satisfied with the clean armor, he put it aside and went and dumped out the water, grimacing at how grey it looked going down the drain. He put the tub away and put the cloth in the dirty clothes hamper that got taken out by a cleaning bot anytime it was full and went and grabbed a small sewing satchel he had stashed away in the back of one of the drawers of his dresser. It was a faded tan color, made out of the hide of a beast only found on Asgard, that had an emblem on the front that could be considered by Midgardians as a mix of Norse and Celtic, but reminded Thor deeply of his mother and always made him a little bit melancholic when he saw it. He ran his finger over the raised emblem, a small pained smile on his face, before shaking himself out of it and returning to his living room. He sat down again and opened the satchel, searching through it until he found the shade of red thread that he used to repair his cape and a small needle to use in the repairs. He threaded it with a dexterity most people would never accuse him of having and searched the tear, deciding on where to start with the repairs. He stuck the needle into the material and focused on the task at hand, the pull and back and forth as the hole slowly closed up. 

When he was done, Thor tugged slightly on the cape, testing the material to make sure it didn't tear easily. He nodded, satisfied, when it held together under his ministrations and he pushed himself up, grabbing his armor up and returning everything to his bedroom, putting it all where he stored it at the bottom of his closet. He looked longingly at his bed, feeling exhaustion creeping up on him, but his stomach rumbled almost as loud as the thunder he could conjure, so he turned away and went to the kitchen, knowing he needed to sate himself with a meal before anything else. His refrigerator was kept full of ready made meals, considering that he was very inept at anything to do with the kitchen, so he only needed to dig around and find something that caught his interest. He saw about nine inches of a twelve inch sub sandwich and grabbed it out, along with a Tupperware tub labeled 'vegetable soup'. He popped it into the microwave and pressed the soup button, letting it heat up as he cut the sandwich up into more manageable bites and placed them on a large plate and then turned and dug out a gallon bottle of water. When the microwave dinged he carefully got out the soup with a cloth potholder and took everything precariously out to the couch. He sat everything down on the coffee table and sat himself, asking FRIDAY to turn on something mindless on the television while he ate. He smiled when she brought up an episode of Tom and Jerry and lost himself in their hijinks, trying not to think of how Jerry the Mouse reminded him of his brother, Loki, and Tom the Cat reminded him of himself. Jerry, he found, was a little bit of a mischievous bully, and often goaded the dimwitted cat into going after him, outsmarting him at every turn. Thor found enjoyment in the aged animated show, though, as it was easy enough to follow, with no outright references that could confuse him. 

Once he had finished his food, and the water, Thor got up and put the plastic bottle in the recycling bin and the Tupperware in the sink to be washed later. He went into the bathroom and took off the cap from his head, noticing that the soothing tingle of the mint had stopped, which meant it was to be rinsed out. He bent over the sink, not wanting to get back in the shower, and washed his hair out, making sure to get every bit of the product out with his fingers, squeezing them through his locks until it felt like no more foam suds were in it. He stood back up and grabbed a towel, drying his hair until it was merely damp before tossing the towel in the hamper. He went back out to his bed and climbed in, laying down on his stomach. He grabbed the edge of the Asgardian blankets he had on his bed and tucked them up over his body, relishing in the soft warmth they provided. He asked FRIDAY to turn the lights off and to turn on some white noise, which for him meant the soft soothing sounds of the ocean waves and the occasional call of sky birds, gulls he thought they were called. It soothed him greatly and just before his exhaustion took him over he let a soft contented sigh escape him, finally relaxed enough to sleep off the harshness of his day.

 

\----------

 

Steve walked down Manhattan Avenue in Brooklyn, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, head ducked as he passed by the other New Yorkers that always seemed to be in a hurry. He walked, in Tony's words, like he was about a hundred and fifty pounds lighter, and a full foot shorter, and like he was trying to fold into himself. Sam had once called it body dysphoria, and once he knew what that meant, Steve had to admit that he possibly did suffer from that. When he told Sam, the other man just laughed and pointed out that Steve regularly referred to himself as 'just an average guy from Brooklyn' when he was anything but. Steve still felt that way about himself, though, and no one could ever seem to break him of it. 

He saw the sign he was looking for and let himself in the shop, smiling when strains of We Fight by Dashboard Confessional wafted over to him. He walked over to the woman manning the front desk of the tattoo shop, five foot nothing, full sleeves on both of her arms and a chest piece peeking out of the low cut tank top she was wearing. She had on black thick rimmed hipster glasses and a few piercings that Steve figured he'd never have the guts to have. He smiled at her when she looked up from the doodle of a frog she was doing and told her his name, as if she needed to know it, knowing that they were on first name bases by now, and that hers, in fact, was Becca and that he had an appointment. She nodded and looked him up in the book in front of her, just to confirm the appointment, and asked him to take a seat since the artist he was getting tattooed by was 'just finishing up with a client'. Steve nodded and sat down in one of the art deco chairs, grabbing a book from the table in front of him adorned with the artists name. He'd flipped through it countless times, but seeing pictures of all the designs appealed to his art school drop out heart and did a lot to soothe the frayed nerves he had going on.

This wasn't the first time Steve had visited the shop. In fact, he was well known around it by that point, not just by Becca and the guy who was tattooing him, a guy who went by the name Cig. He was getting his third tattoo, and was glad that he was allowed to bring his own drawings. The first tattoo he'd ever gotten had been about six months after the Chitauri had invaded. He had been looking into something that would make him feel again, something that helped him try and find an identity that would help him acclimate himself to this new era that he'd been thrust into and he'd stumbled upon an article of tattoos and had lost himself into the ether as it were. He'd started with tattoos that had been popular with soldiers back in the '30's, and had looked through the types and trends that had popped up since. 

He had a deep love of the old school technique with the pin up girls, mermaids, swallows and sparrows, and armed forces symbols; but he was also fascinated with the new school technique, the vivid colors and exaggerated designs appealing to his sense of individuality that he coveted ever since he'd been thrust into the role of Captain America and had started off as nothing more than a performing monkey in USO tours. 

The first tattoo Steve had ever gotten was wrapped around his neck from the back, hanging down between his pecs. It was a replica of dog tags, except instead of his own, it was Bucky's. He'd managed to get replica ones from the ones that were on display at the Smithsonian and he'd gotten them tattooed in a way that seemed haphazard, as if he was laying on his back and they'd fallen where they may. 

The second tattoo Steve had ever gotten was a decorative Celtic cross with triquetras etched into the four sides in a vivid red and black contrast on his shoulder blade. It was a nod to his Irish Catholic heritage, even though he was hardly a good little Irish Catholic boy anymore. He never went to church and found himself quite at odds with people who liked to tout themselves as 'deeply religious'. It had special meaning to him, though, and it was more than just showing off that he was a follower of certain rules that people thought needed to be upheld to be a 'nice little Irish Catholic boy'. It was deeper, a way to show that even though Steve had changed, and didn't quite know who he was anymore, he still had his core beliefs that would never change, despite many people over the years trying to get him to yield to them and abandon everything he believed in---simply put, being a good person and standing up for what he believed was the right thing to do. 

When his name was called, he got up and walked over to Cig, greeting the other man that had become something more than just a tattoo artist, and something more than a vague acquaintance. He stripped out of his shirt and sat down as he handed Cig the idea for the tattoo he had in mind and showed him where he wanted it, covering the left side of his ribs. He shot Cig a look when he mentioned 'dude, you know it'll hurt like fuck, right' and cracked a grin when the other man just held his hands up and started getting his things ready. Steve was no stranger to pain, and deep down in the darkest recesses of his mind, he may even admit, if just to himself, that a part of him _liked_ some pain. Not a lot, he wasn't a complete masochist, but pain sometimes grounded him and made him feel present. It was a part of why he loved getting tattoos in the first place, along with the individuality they helped him have.

The design he was getting that day was a star shape, like what was on the front of the shield he used to use as a weapon. It would be as if it was etched out of his skin, with graphic ribs and realistic looking things that would be found inside the human body peeking out of it. Surrounding the star cut out would be angry bursts of red, white and blue, like a rebel pattern, someone angry at ideology and what their country had become. Cig commented that it had a certain 'punk rock appeal' to it, but Steve wasn't sure about all of that. He just knew that it was how he felt and he thought it represented him quite well. Though he knew if anyone ever knew he had it, all hell would break loose and he'd probably never hear the end of it. Nick Fury himself would probably have Steve knocked out and bring someone in to tattoo over it. Something bright and happy and innocent that would make Steve want to throw up in disgust. 

Steve turned over onto his side when Cig was ready to begin and he zoned out as the stencil was applied to his skin and he nodded absently when he was asked if he liked the placement of it. He held his arm above his head, out of the way and when the buzz of the tattoo machine started up, Steve licked his lip, trying not to succumb to the pleasure he knew he would get from getting the tattoo done. A part of him felt amoral, dirty in a way and he knew if his mother ever knew that he was getting something like that tattooed on him, or even a tattoo period, she would've fainted dead away. Thank God his dear ma had gone to be with the Lord several years before and couldn't pass any judgment to him until he saw her again one day. 

Cig didn't attempt to talk to Steve, knowing that the other man was horrible at small talk. When the concept of a quiet chair had come up at a few barbers, Steve jumped on it immediately. He wasn't the type to warm up to someone easily and even though he and Cig had a friendly thing going, Steve liked to be left alone with his quiet mind while he was actually getting tattooed. The entire thing was a comfort to Steve, something he needed sometimes, and he relished the few hours he got to be in control over his body, knowing that anything that happened, he was subjecting himself to on his own accord. The fact that he was getting things put on him that _he_ wanted gave him a sick pleasure that he latched onto and coveted in the times where he felt like he had no control over his life and had to hunker down and weather the storm until it was over. It meant that even though things tried to beat him down, tried to make him submit and showed him that sometimes life forced your hand, that he had some modicum of control over things and he had to pick and choose the moments he took advantage of that fact. It just so happened that he took back the control with tattoos. 

Sometime later, Steve wasn't sure how long, Cig pronounced him done and Steve sat up, wincing at the slight sting from the tattoo, and the fact that he'd held his arm in an unnatural position for longer than his body was happy about. He stood up and went over to the full length mirror across the room and looked at the tattoo, mesmerized by its rough beauty. It was exactly what he wanted and he felt a wave of happiness go through him as he looked at the visceral image that was forever etched on his body. 

He thanked Cig for it and let the man spray him down with disinfectant and place a bandage over the tattoo. He absently listened to the care instructions, knowing by now how to take care of everything. He walked over and grabbed his shirt back up and turned to look when Cheryl, the in house piercer, spoke up. 

"You know, Steve, I know you like your tattoos, but I'm just waiting on the day when you get into piercings." She said in a joking manner, obviously thinking that that day would never come.

He paused and stared at her blankly, his mind going a mile a minute. Just because he was who he was and he liked to sometimes buck the system that he didn't fully believe in anymore he raised an eyebrow. "Are you free now?"

She looked at him gobsmacked for several seconds before blurting out a laugh. "Are you sure you're ready for a piercing? You haven't even gotten any tattoos that would be shown off very easily." She pointed out.

Steve sat at her station and looked at Cheryl imploringly. "What about my nipples? What can you do there?"

Cheryl watched him for several seconds before gesturing to the display in front of her. "Well we can do two types: barbells and captive bead rings....or there's always the option of both." 

"How would that go?" Steve asked curiously, his mind working overtime as he looked over the jewelry in front of him. 

Cheryl picked up two different types of piercings, one a straight bar that had two small circular beads on each end and one that was almost a circular shape, that also had two circular beads that almost touched. "You take them and pierce them at different angles, and they intersect sort of..." She pieced the two sets of jewelry together to show him about what it would look like and Steve thought about it. 

"What about...can I get different types of jewelry? Does it all have to be the silver metal?" He asked.

She shook her head. "No, you can get it switched out, but at first you want just the basic type like this. You get it done and then once it heals in about eight months I can change it out to whatever you decide you want."

He grinned at her. "Ok do it."

"Really?" She laughed. "Just one, or..."

"Both, don't want to be uneven." He shrugged, ignoring the pull of the tattoo. 

She shook her head got out the appropriate jewelry and her supplies. "I never thought I'd see the day..." 

"You only have one life, right? May as well make the most of it." He pointed out, leaning back in his chair when she came around to his side. 

"I can't believe I'm getting to do this." She said, almost giddy.

"What?" He snorted and rolled his eyes. "Getting to touch Captain America's nipples?" 

"Captain America, hell." She said. "To me you're just some hot guy I get to feel up. Hell of a bonus for me. Slight pinch, sweetheart." 

He let out a surprised gasp when the first ring went through his nipple. It was more than a 'slight pinch' and he definitely wasn't ready for it. But the idea that he was doing something that a lot of people would probably disapprove of made his adrenaline spike again and the familiar feeling of happiness sweep through him. So much so that he barely felt the other three piercings go in until Cheryl moved back and pronounced him done. He accepted the sheet of paper she gave him with care instructions and looked it over since these would be his first piercings. Briefly he thought about what if he got more, but figured he needed to wait until people may be able to warm up to the idea of him not being as innocent as they wanted to believe he was.

He thanked both Cheryl and Cig and paid for the tattoo and piercings, leaving more than a generous tip as he slid his shirt back on, wincing as the fabric pushed against his sensitive nipples. He licked his lips and waved at the both of them, making his way out of the shop. He'd had such a good day that he decided to treat himself to his favorite pizza pie about two blocks over, thinking that a deep dish meat lovers with a pitcher of beer sounded pretty good right then. 

 

\----------

 

When people looked at Tony Stark, most of them probably would scoff at the idea that he paid a lot of attention to his personal grooming habits, but it was true. One had to only look at his meticulously sculpted beard to know it. Sure, he spent a lot of time in his workshop, elbow deep in grease as he worked on his suits, making sure everything was in optimum working order. He was never afraid of stripping down to a tank top (or not even that) and getting his hands (and other parts of his body) dirty. But the thing about it was, ever since he'd spent three months in a cave, nothing but a car battery hooked up to his chest keeping him alive, Tony had certain eccentricities he had to deal with and while he was ok with getting dirty, he was far from ok with _staying _dirty. Back in his wilder days, when he was done with his conquests, it wasn't unusual for him to get right up once he was physically able and pop in the shower. He'd been called Patrick Bateman more than a few times because of it and it never bothered him, except for the fact that maybe someone could think he could ever possibly be a serial killer. So what if Tony had a strenuous grooming routine? There was nothing wrong with that.__

__After a nice, long, calming shower, Tony threw on a pair of worn silk pajama pants that were a weird color somewhere between his favorite candy apple red and some kind of warm brown and grabbed his nail kit off his dresser. He debated getting into bed, but he knew it could be quite clumsy so he walked out and sat at the kitchen table with a smoothie he snatched from the fridge, not in the mood to order takeout right then. He asked FRIDAY to cue up some music and grinned when Panama by Van Halen started up. "Perfect." He muttered to himself, opening up his nail kit._ _

__He wasn't the type to do much to his nails, and he'd never be caught dead with any sort of colored nail polish, or God forbid, emo-black, but that wasn't the only thing you could do with nails. He looked at the tools in the kit and at his nails and grimaced when he saw that they looked longer than he liked to keep them and he could see bits of grime and dirt embedded in them and caked into the cuticles. The thought made him shiver a bit, but he calmed himself down, reminding himself that he was taking care of it right then. He grabbed out the tool he used to push his cuticles back and got to work. There was something relaxing about the act of pushing his cuticles back. Of course, you could go too far and it'd leave your fingers sore for a while, but pushing them back just enough felt good and it did a lot to make the slump of Tony's shoulders more pronounced the more he worked._ _

__Once he had all his cuticles sorted out, he flipped the tool in his hand over to the opposite end and began cleaning out the dirt that was embedded there. He carefully dug out everything, wiping the tool off periodically so it didn't get built up and dig the dirt even more into his nails._ _

__He replaced the tool once he was done and took out what looked like small scissors. He knew he could've, and probably should've, used clippers to clip his nails, but he never liked the idea of them going all over the place and even though he had small bots that kept his floors clean, Tony thought that using the scissors to trim his nails would give him more of a peace of mind._ _

__He kept his nails a little shorter than was probably necessary, only leaving a little bit of the white part of the nail, dangerously close to cutting them to the quick, but he didn't like the idea of dirt getting caked under his nails and this cut down on that possibility quite a lot. He made sure not to cut so much that he bled, or that he'd give himself sore fingers, knowing that either possibility would bug him until his nails grew out again, and he also made sure to make them look as even as possible. He didn't want them to look like he chewed on them to get them short, and he also didn't want one side to look longer than the other. It was a meticulous job, but Tony had always been the type to pay attention to detail, having had the idea drilled into him by his dear old dad from the time he could learn to 'follow directions' up until he'd gotten out from under his father's thumb and had gone off to college._ _

__Done with the trimming, Tony put the tool away and grabbed another set out, trimming a few hangnails he had. He hated having those more than anything and always picked at them until they became sore and until he could get a chance to trim them down to be unnoticeable. He'd spent many a meeting distracted by a hangnail and Pepper had threatened to throttle him more times than he could count because he flat out ignored everything around him in favor of running his thumb back and forth an errant hangnail._ _

__He dug out his cuticle oil once he was finished and spread it on, nail by nail, massaging it into them. It made his nails look shiny and clean and that alone made him feel very happy._ _

__The last step was a nice polish to make sure he didn't have the urge to chew on them, or that any errant dirt that may be left behind, or yellow residue, could be seen. He looked through his options, which basically were clear and skin tone and hummed to himself. He was feeling adventurous so he grabbed a bottle labeled 'pink fire opal' that was a nude color, but also had a small pink tint to it that wouldn't be noticeable to anyone unless they grabbed his hand and looked right at his nails (something Tony would never let anyone do to him unless they had express permission and those who did have permission probably wouldn't care enough about what his nails looked like anyway) and opened the bottle. He ignored the awful scent that made his nose burn and started painting his nails, making sure to get the first coat even and not saturate anything, also to not get anything on his cuticles._ _

__Tony looked at the first hand once he was done and admired how it looked. He grabbed his LED nail lamp and dried them and then did a second coat, repeating the process. Once that hand was finished he was glad he was ambidextrous as he did the other hand, paying close attention to it as he had the first, doing two coats, drying both in between._ _

__Tony packed up his nail kit once he was finished and went and put it away, looking at himself in the mirror in front of the sink in his bathroom. He still had bags under his eyes, he still had far too many lines on his face that betrayed the age he tried to ignore. But he felt calm and relaxed and most of all happy. It was a good thing and it made Tony outwardly smile. Most people thought Tony Stark was a complicated man, but the truth of the matter was that things like a simple nail routine did a lot more for him than any therapy in the would ever accomplish and for that Tony was grateful._ _

__

__\----------_ _

__

__Clint Barton stretched as he walked out of his bedroom after what he'd dubbed the world's greatest nap. There was nothing like coming home after a mission or Avengering, taking a nice, long shower, and then sleeping like the dead for a couple of hours. It did a great deal in helping him recharge his batteries, and if he took out his hearing aids, short of someone coming into his room and jumping up and down on his bed (looking at you, Natasha!) he would never be disturbed unless it was an emergency._ _

__There were several misconceptions about Clint Barton. The first of them was that he was dumb. He wasn't. There was a reason Fury had called him 'one of the smartest men I know', and there was a reason he understood how the Tesseract had worked. He acted like he was dumb as a pile of bricks, that was him in survival mode, it went a long way in a lot of people underestimating him. But he wasn't, not by a long shot._ _

__The other was that he wasn't able to take care of himself. He was, he just didn't always like to. But sometimes he indulged himself. He could happily live off takeout, and coffee by the pot full, but there were times that he wanted the finer things in life, which is why he woke up with the craving for soufflés._ _

__Clint Barton could cook, not many people knew that about him. It was borne from a deep survival instinct and had started in his circus days. Carnies weren't known for their gourmet cooking but Clint had learned how to make some damn fine delicacies such as cowboy stew, en papillote fish, and s'mores made with chocolate chip cookies instead of graham crackers._ _

__Then Phil Coulson had come into his life and turned everything upside down._ _

__He and Phil had a layered relationship and regularly went from just co-workers, to an almost father-son type of deal. He was close to the former SHIELD agent and Phil had been the one to further Clint's culinary skills, teaching him several techniques and dishes that Clint liked to pull out every once in a while, especially when he was feeling melancholy._ _

__He was feeling melancholy. So soufflés._ _

__He looked through his kitchen to make sure he had everything he needed and when he was satisfied he did, he decided on what he wanted, which was one savory and one sweet soufflé. Particularly a cheese one and a chocolate one._ _

__He started with the cheese one first, taking out a few different sorts of cheeses in block form. He dug out his grater and then got to work, making little piles of cheese. He wasn't sure how many soufflés he was actually going to make of each, but he figured he could call Natasha over and let her have a couple if she wanted them._ _

__As he grated, he let his mind wander. He heard Phil's voice in his head and it sent a pang through his chest, but he also smiled._ _

___"Sometimes when you cook food, it's not about the food itself, it's about the intention behind the food. It's what you mean for it. The care behind it, the love you have for the person you're cooking for, and yes, before you ask, that can even mean when you're cooking for yourself."_ _ _

__Phil was the one that got him into cooking for himself sometimes. Phil didn't indulge often, but sometimes he had a craving and he gave into it. He didn't think it was strange to make lobster bisque for one. It was just an indulgence he let himself have, especially after a particularly hard day...or week. It depended on just how hard it was in the end. After the Iron Man debacle? Forget it. He'd indulged so much it made Clint's eyes bug out of his head and his mouth water fiercely in jealousy._ _

__Clint bustled around once he had the cheeses grated, thinking about the steps in his head. He didn't have any recipes written down, especially the ones Phil had taught him. But he had everything memorized and he knew what came when. He buttered the ramekin dishes and poured the batter into each of them, stopping to make sure he'd preheated his oven. He wanted them to come out perfectly and didn't want any missteps._ _

__After he put the ramekins in, he grabbed what he needed to make the chocolate batter and he got up on the counter, so his footfalls didn't jostle the stove. There was almost nothing more frustrating and heartbreaking than when you spend so much time on a tedious batter for a soufflé and something jostles it as it's cooking and they deflate into grey mush. They still taste fairly ok, but the overall look of them as about as unappetizing as it gets._ _

__When the timer pinged on the first soufflés he got them out and let them cool as he buttered his next ramekins and put the batter in before putting them in the oven. He got back up on the counter and pulled one of the cheese soufflés toward him. He grabbed a spoon out of the drawer and tested the consistency of the soufflé. Once he was happy with it he took a bite and moaned quietly to himself. It was just as he remembered it and a wave of the same melancholic feeling swept through him._ _

__He wound up eating two more of the soufflés and left the others for whoever wanted them. The oven pinged on the chocolate ones and he deftly got them out and set them out to cool. He wound up staring at them until he thought they wouldn't burn his mouth with the molten heat and he grabbed one up and dug into it. It was just as good as the cheese ones had been and he felt proud of himself for mastering them. He thought maybe if Phil had been there, he'd be proud of him and Clint allowed himself to be proud of himself. He thought he'd earned it._ _

__When he had his fill of the soufflés, he opened a bottle of wine and poured himself a glass as he took out his cell. He pulled up Natasha's contact information and sent her a text. ** _Had a craving. Made soufflés. Have leftovers if you want._**_ _

__He sat down and pulled up an episode of Dog Cops just as she sent the reply. ** _On my way._**_ _

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__

__When someone looked at Natasha, the last thing that would go through their mind would probably be that she was an avid scrapbooker, but she was. She'd learned about the hobby not too long after she'd been taken in by SHIELD and given a job. She was watching American television to help her learn more (read: better) English and had come upon a daytime talk show where the host had a guest on that was talking about it. She found it endlessly fascinating, watching the expert (some 60 something year old grandmotherly type) explain the processes and different techniques that could be used from a simple collage, to more advanced techniques using Silhouette Cameo. She got absorbed into the segment and by the end of it had put it in her mind that it was something she needed to try out, especially since Clint was forever telling her she needed a hobby that didn't involve weapons of some sort. Of course she could turn just about anything into a weapon, so she wasn't sure if this counted or not, but she was choosing to decide that it did._ _

__The next day she took herself to the local Hobby Lobby and walked up to the first employee that she saw. She introduced herself as Nadia Romesco and spun a tail about how her nonna had been an avid scrapbooker and had taught her at a young age how to do it as well. They'd spent hours at a time doing it and it was some of her fondest memories of growing up. She said that her nonna had recently died and she hadn't scrapbooked in years, but wanted to get back into it, so she needed supplies, and asked if they had the Silhouette Cameo she could purchase as well._ _

__The employee looked taken aback by the story and Natasha wondered if maybe she shouldn't have spun such an elaborate tale, but the employee finally shook herself and led Natasha to the scrapbooking session, pointing out different things and making suggestions to her. Natasha found her beloved Silhouette Cameo and was left to look around at everything else. Natasha wasn't sure where to start, but knew asking for help would expose her story, so she just started grabbing everything that looked like it would be interesting to try._ _

__That had been the start of her journey and after a few years she'd become some what of a pro at scrapbooking. It wasn't unusual for Clint or Phil to get scrapbook presents that held memories from different places they'd visited, or anything that Natasha deemed worthy of being put in the book. Both of them secretly treasured the books, since they knew it took a lot for Natasha to put herself out like that and they both loved picking one at random and looking through it, reminiscing over the pictures and reading the captions Natasha had written down on a few in the bubble type writing she thought fit the 'look' of a scrapbook._ _

__After particularly rough missions or Avengers stuff she sat down with all of her stuff and worked for hours, doing mindless things that let her put things behind her. Everyone always said she was cool and calm and envied the way she could compartmentalize things, but the truth was it wasn't always that easy for her. Scrapbooking helped. It didn't let her forget everything, not by a long shot, but it helped her be able to not let it get to her as much._ _

__She put aside the book she'd just finished, smiling as she looked at the cover. She was making some for everyone for Christmas, even though it was months away. She figured it was a good thing to give to everyone, so she didn't have to expend her energy trying to find the 'perfect' gift._ _

__It paid to have a skill you could fall back on._ _

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__

__Bruce looked around as he walked out of the compound and over to the car he was using to take himself into the city. He knew no one would want to follow him after he said he was running errands, but he couldn't help himself. After years of being on the run from General Ross, it was ingrained into him to keep an eye out on his surroundings and look for any threats that might be coming his way._ _

__He forced himself to calm down as he drove himself to Brooklyn, looking at the time. He smiled seeing that he was making good time and he waved absently when he saw Steve coming back from his morning run. Steve looked curious when he saw him driving off, but Bruce figured they could talk about it later, he didn't want to be late._ _

__He pulled up to the Koneko Cat Café and parked where he was able to find a space, getting out and heading inside. Just as he walked through the door, he felt himself calm down considerably and he smiled, pushing his glasses up on his face._ _

__He walked over to the counter in the space and ordered an oolong tea and a brunch plate, along with a can of cat food after he'd given them his name so they could confirm his reservation. He walked over and sat down in one of the high legged chairs at a table to wait for them to bring everything and once he had his food and tea he walked over to another room and sat down on top of a square foam seat. He put his food down and sipped at his tea, smiling when he saw a few cats milling about. He'd always been a cat person, their calm, quiet nature soothing to him and he'd always wanted one. Tony was allergic to them though so he knew he'd never be able to get one for himself (Tony actually _was_ allergic to them, too, not just over the top about how unclean they were. Bruce had once witnessed a cat cross Tony's path and when it brushed up against his leg Tony had started breathing funny and Bruce wound up having to call an ambulance. It was an experience neither of them wanted to go through again). _ _

__Bruce let himself be content with his trips to the cat café though. It was enough and their two day a week brunches were sometimes the highlight of his day._ _

__He looked down when he felt something nudge against his ankle and saw a white Japanese bobtail that had spots of color on a few places looking up at him, one eye blue, the other green. Bruce smiled and reached down, gently letting the cat sniff at him before he rubbed a hand over it. "Hi there, sweetheart." He murmured softly. "Look at you. How beautiful. Would you like a treat?" He asked. He grabbed a small plastic spoon and scooped up some of the cat food, holding it out to the cat who put her paw on top of his hand and nibbled at he food. He grabbed up a scone from his own plate and chewed on it while the cat ate, feeling content here among all of the cats and the quiet people who were in the room._ _

__After eating, Bruce finished his tea and looked at his watch. He'd booked two hours and it was barely 45 minutes in so he slid down to the floor and let an orange tabby lounge next to him, purring loudly when Bruce stroked a hand over it. Another calico cat jumped up and laid over his shoulder, making him laugh softly. "I think you should be named Tony." He teased. "You remind me of him a little bit." The cat peered at him and then reached up, lightly batting his glasses askew on his face. Bruce grinned wryly and fixed them. "Yeah you definitely remind me of him. That was something I could see him doing when he gets annoyed at me." He teased, poking the cat on the nose._ _

__Bruce spent the rest of his time there immersed in the cats, feeling safe and sane in his little bubble of happiness. He got another cup of tea sometime along the way, but otherwise just allowed himself to play with and feed the cats, marveling at how he was alive in a time where you could go to a café and play with cats. Now all Bruce had to do was go to the other animal cafes around the world. It was on his bucket list._ _


End file.
